


I See You

by flowersandteeth



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Adult Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Biting, Bottom Peter Parker, Cannibalism, Dark Tony Stark, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fbi agent Peter Parker, Fear of Death, Light BDSM, M/M, Mafia AU, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, Top Tony Stark, hitman tony, serial killer tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandteeth/pseuds/flowersandteeth
Summary: The FBI has been after Anthony Stark, serial killer-slash-mob enforcer, for a long time.Peter, special agent and analyst, dips into places he shouldn’t.There are consequences.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 217





	I See You

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: implied cannibalism, non-con/extremely dub-con. 
> 
> Peter does not die in this, and does not get seriously injured.

“Good morning, Starshine.”

Peter tries to swallow, his mouth and throat fuzzy from whatever had been used to knock him out, his head stuffed up and aching. 

He opens his eyes, winces at the light. Shuts them. 

His wrists are secured together high above his head, and everything is cold, chilly air on bare skin--bare. God. He’s naked; stuck in stirrups, strapped down. But, aside from the headache and the discomfort of waking up in bindings and completely exposed...he doesn’t hurt.

He lifts his head, forces himself to squint in the light at the figure standing off to the side.

“What did you give me?” he asks, voice thick.

“Standard knock-out cocktail. Painless,” says that familiar voice.

Peter swallows again, drops his head back against the headrest of the chair and shuts his eyes. “Thanks for that, I guess,” he rasps.

A soft, familiar chuckle issues from the right side of the room. He’s too tired to look. 

He drifts for a little while longer in the wobbling in-out of slowly returning consciousness. 

Footsteps click behind him and then further back. A quiet humming lilts through the air, and then the rush of water--a sink--and the sound of something being filled. More footsteps, this time growing closer along with the humming.

Something pokes at his lips, and he opens without thought.

A straw.

He sucks, moans at the cool rush of water down his parched throat.

“Good boy,” the figure says.

Peter shivers involuntarily at the praise, heat curling lazy-sweet in his gut. Danger, a deep part of him whispers. 

He takes another pull of water and then the straw slips from between his lips.

He opens his eyes.

Anthony “Tony” Stark moves away to stand off to the right, setting the glass of water down on the desk and sitting back against the edge. The enforcer looks good; dressed to the nines as he was in every fruitless interrogation video on record, a suit that probably costs as much as Peter’s rent, goatee immaculate, thick salt and pepper hair styled in a casual mess. He watches Peter with a pleasant look on his face that doesn’t match the emptiness of his pitch-dark eyes. 

The room is small, an office, maybe. They’re in a warehouse; through the window behind Stark, Peter can see closed bay doors, concrete and metal and beams and silent, unmoving machinery. A quick glance around the immediate room tells Peter there’s no tray of instruments, nothing lined up on the desk. Nothing to do the kind of rip-and-tear damage Peter had seen in any of the crime scene photos. 

“You look confused, Pete,” Stark says. “Were you expecting something?”

“I’m just well-versed in your usual, and this isn’t it,” Peter says. He tugs a little at the bindings around his wrists--leather. Stiff, but exponentially more yielding than the steel cuffs that left cuts and torn skin around the wrists of the bodies in the morgue, in the photos. 

Stark smiles, and cold trickles down Peter’s spine. “You’re a special case.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You got a little too close, all on your own.” Stark smiles again, looks...proud. “A real go-getter. You’ve got enemies in high places, Petey-pie. Kept poking your nose in all the wrong places.” He shrugs. “Or the right ones, as it were.”

The first unpleasant sensation prickles through whatever it is Stark gave him (definitely not standard knock-out; an unsurprising lie), and his stomach sinks.

Someone did this. Someone sent him right into the jaws of the monster-- _why ‘jaws’, why do jaws matter_ \--and now he’s going to die in some creative way, some way that doesn’t include scalpels or knives or cattle prods or any of the endless list of horrifyingly inventive tools Anthony Stark has allegedly used to ruin human beings.

That ‘someone’ was probably--most likely--Rumlow, head of the task force and a first-class asshole. He’d warned Peter not to get involved, and Peter hadn’t listened, because...well, because he noticed the inconsistencies in the original ME reports versus what was included in Stark’s official dossier, inconsistencies made all the more suspicious by how tightly the originals were locked down. 

Maybe Peter had ‘noticed’ them when he’d ‘stumbled upon’ the confidential files.

Maybe Rumlow noticed. Maybe someone above Rumlow noticed.

And now Peter’s shoulders ache from how his arms are suspended and there are straps wrapping his thighs and calves, keeping his legs spread in the stirrups of this medical chair.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Stark tuts. “Boring. Try again.”

Peter wets his lips nervously. “Do you take requests?”

“Better.” Stark pushes off from the desk, and comes to stand in front of him. “And no. But you’re free to beg for whatever you want.”

“Boring,” Peter says, a touch breathless, real fear finally beginning to worm its way through. “You know I’ll beg at some point.”

Stark smirks. He walks back to the desk, pulls a rolling stool out from underneath and moves it between Peter’s spread legs, shucks his jacket and tosses it onto the desk. He begins meticulously rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Tell me something,” Stark says as he sits down, rolls a little closer. “Why would someone send a pretty little hacker into the jaws of death?”

Peter winces at the phrase, twitches back away from Stark’s nearness before he can catch himself. Too many sensitive parts on display, too close to that shark-like smile.

“Analyst,” Peter corrects inanely. “And I don’t know why you’re asking, why do you ca-- _fuck_ , okay,” he gasps, a bolt of pure panic shooting, short and electric, through his limbs at the sudden grip of Stark’s hands high up the backs of his thighs. “Okay. I saw some things and I knew they were wrong and I guess I went to the wrong people.”

“What was wrong?” Stark asks, faux-curious, trailing his thumbs back and forth along the sensitive inner skin of Peter’s thighs. His gaze is dark, flat, fixed on Peter’s eyes instead of all the flesh in front of him, and Peter can’t tell at this point whether that’s a (relatively) good thing.

“They...fudged the ME reports,” Peter says. “Doctored the photos.” He struggles not to squirm when Stark’s hands slide down to his ass. “They…”

Peter freezes. “They know who you are,” he breathes. “They know. They hid the marks because they know, and they…”

“They like to toss me a good meal every now and again,” Stark supplies casually.

That’s why there are no tools. No knives, no blades. Stark’s smile is a weapon, and Peter is beyond fucked. 

Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s just the intensity of the understanding, but Peter can practically see blood between those immaculate teeth, painting Stark’s lips. Cutting, pulling, ripping, tearing, _chewing_ \-- 

The grip on his ass tightens, and he lets out a strangled sound when Stark’s eyes drop from his in favor of the places between Peter’s legs.

“They gave you to me for disposal, Mr. Parker,” Stark says, distractedly. “A pretty little troublemaker about to throw a wrench in all their plans.” He leans in, and Peter jerks at the brush of lips against the inside of his right thigh. “I should send them a thank you card.”

Those lips part and teeth scrape Peter’s skin, not nearly hard enough to break through, but roughly enough to startle him into trying, futilely, to pull away. 

“I can make it all disappear,” Peter blurts. “I’ll wipe everything. Every file, every scrap of anything that has _anything_ to do with you. I could do it from my phone, right now.”

“Mm. I know you can,” Stark murmurs. He kisses Peter’s thigh again, squeezes his ass. Smirks up at him. “My job isn’t all wetwork. I know all about you, Peter.”

When he leans in toward the center, towards Peter’s most sensitive places, Peter squirms in earnest, leather straps biting into his limbs, across his middle. “No, wait, please--”

And then all he can do is moan, startled and loud, when Stark dips down between Peter’s cheeks and kisses him, open-mouthed, tongue thick and hot and wet, probing at Peter’s hole, alternating between long, dragging sweeps and penetration, slick muscle working its way inside Peter’s body.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Peter gasps, yanking downwards, flinching and struggling between the sharp tug at his wrists and the non-stop stimulation of Stark’s mouth. “What the fuck are you--oh, God, stop, you can’t--don’t, please,” he begs, tears springing to his eyes.

It feels _good_ , scary good, his hips arching and bucking to the extent allowed by his bindings, and that all encompassing pleasure is going to stop at some point and turn to unimaginable pain and terror. 

Images flash through his mind--the _real_ photos; missing pieces, torn flesh, the mangled crescents he couldn’t--hadn’t wanted to believe--were bitemarks--

Stark drags his tongue from Peter’s tailbone to his balls with a loud, satisfied groan.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he growls, grinning up from between Peter’s legs. Peter makes a high sound, a whine, at the sight of those teeth so near his thinnest skin. Stark nuzzles at his sack, sucks one of Peter’s balls into his mouth, rolls it around and releases it, takes in the other for the same treatment.

Still no pain. Still nothing but sparking heat prickling through Peter’s hips, low in his spine, his body aching for more even as tears free themselves and roll down his cheeks. He squeezes his eyes shut and slams his head back against the chair, unwilling to keep looking down at his traitorous cock, jutting up stiff and leaking on his stomach. 

“Please,” Peter says, voice cracking. “Please don’t--” he cuts himself off, bites down on the words. _Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t stop_.

“Peter,” Stark croons, pressing a soft kiss to the base of Peter’s cock. “Baby. Sweetheart. Light of my life.” Peter flinches and moans, low and frightened, at the press of teeth against his erection, faint, sharp pressure. “Look at me.”

Peter swallows, steels himself, and looks down his body.

“I lied,” Stark whispers conspiratorially, breath washing warm across Peter’s stomach

The fluorescent light flattens everything, brings out the shadows in Stark’s eyes and the faint hollows under his cheekbones, monstrous and hard and beautiful.

“No one sent you to me.”

Peter stares, uncomprehending--unwilling to comprehend. “What?”

Stark smiles, slides his hands around to pet and squeeze the tops of Peter’s thighs. 

“You’re here because I wanted you here. You’re here,” he kisses the tip of Peter’s cock, and to Peter’s shamed arousal, it twitches, a bead of precome leaking and rolling down the shaft, “because you’re better than all of the idiots who believe they have me cornered. My pretty little hacker, my little genius. Scooped up by the Eff. Bee. Eye.”

“Wha--” Peter starts to ask again, numb, but Stark sucks him down.

Down, down, into the hot, tight, pulsing heat of his throat, down to hell and farther, past any hope of return. Lost in the dark, reverent satisfaction of Stark’s gaze, and the stretch of Stark’s lips around his cock.

When the sharp edges of those perfectly straight, perfectly terrible incisors close around the base of his flesh, press in hard enough to hurt, Peter comes with a choked cry, straining against his binds.

Stark sucks and licks him through it, brushes open-mouthed kisses the slick, too-sensitive head until Peter twitches and moans from _too much_.

When Stark releases him, nuzzling at Peter’s trembling thighs like a lover, murmuring sweet, possessive nothings into his skin…

...Peter might as well have died here, in this warehouse. Lost, consumed. Gone.

“You’re mine, Peter Parker,” Stark says softly, watching him with pleased, victorious heat. “You have been from the moment you cracked the encryption on those reports. You saw me. And I saw you, sweet thing. I see you.” He smiles. “And I’m never giving you back.”

Peter stares down at him, breath slowing as the sweat begins to cool on his body. Slack against the chair, shoulders aching, muscles twitching from exertion, he gives up.

He nods.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm working on a majorly huge WinterIronSpider fic, but I am also actively working on a second part to this particular fic; I'm hoping to have it finished up within the next couple of weeks, so check back in for that if you're interested <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> EDIT: I'm sorry to those of you expecting the next installment; the big WIS one is eating up my brain so this fic has no estimated time of additional parts 😅


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